soft breath, beating heart
by Veterization
Summary: Peter/Stiles oneshot. Dub-con. That day in the parking garage when Peter tells Stiles "he can be very persuasive," he ends up having to persuade him. Set in 1x12.


_Disclaimer: _I do not own Teen Wolf.

_Notes: _I have no idea where the hell my obsession with this pairing came from, but I am absolutely in love with it. I've read practically every Stiles/Peter story to date and I love both the dark/rather realistic ones and the ones that are just pure aggressive sex. This story definitely falls into the latter category.

Fair warning: there is definitely dub-con in this! If that's not your thing I suggest you turn back now.

The title is from the addictive song Tear You Apart by She Wants Revenge, one of my ultimate Peter/Stiles songs. Everybody listen to it!

* * *

Considering that his day began with Stiles preparing for taking Lydia Martin to the winter formal, standing in a grimy parking lot next to Peter Hale while he dabs residual blood from his mouth was not exactly what he was anticipating.

He's still wearing the shirt that took him about twenty minutes to pick out just to aesthetically please Lydia and a tie that feels like it's choking him no matter how much he loosens it until it's hanging limply on his chest much like his dignity, his shirt no longer primly tucked and scuffs of dirt on his pants at the knees from where he crouched by Lydia and pleaded for her life. He swears to God that if Jackson didn't call an ambulance he'll tear the guy apart.

Speaking of tearing apart, there's still the ever present issue of the Alpha werewolf standing threateningly close to him, almost as if he expects Stiles to run and is ready to reel him in by his teeth if he does, but all Stiles cares about right now is who is going to eat dinner with his dad on Tuesday nights and how much will it hurt to have an Alpha kill him in a parking lot. He's seen the pictures on the newspapers and the graphic ones in his father's evidence folder, pictures of burnt bodies and gutted victims practically spilling their organs over the floor with how badly they've been clawed at. He knows he's innocent, knows he had nothing even remotely to do with the Hale house fire, but he never took psychology in high school and doesn't know exactly how many limits a sociopath has when it comes to where he draws the line between immoral murder and moral murder.

Driving here was bad enough, the sight of Lydia bloodied and bruised and eyes closed like they'd never open again etched into his mind like it had been branded directly onto his brain, hands perpetually shaking and the road nothing but a blur in front of him while Peter sat next to him and almost serenely examined the landscape. It's his collected nature that has Stiles terrified, because all he actually remembers of the guy is the red-eyed beast chasing him and Scott through the school and the supposedly comatose patient with the half-burnt face crushing Derek into the wall at the hospital. He expects Peter to have a temper and be aggressive and be as petrifying as the creature he transforms into, but when all he sees in front of him is a man with a rather enigmatic smirk who's calmly chatting about murder and revenge, Stiles has no idea how to behave.

So he does what he always does, and makes it up as he goes along. In hindsight, that was probably a bad decision.

He's in the middle of pulling out Peter's pristine Mac computer and attempting to throw whatever obstacles he can into the air to keep the guy at bay, things like "good luck getting a signal out here" even though of course, Peter's thought of everything because the guy is resourceful, all the while desperately trying to keep the image of Peter's dead nurse's ashen flesh out of his mind. He knows what they say at the police force—serial killers can all be assumed to be of advanced intelligence simply because they can commit more than one murder undetected, and the only thing separating them from being regular killers is their clever ability to cover their tracks. Stiles honestly has no idea how Peter will ever be prosecuted for these murders when he's been wiping his footsteps immaculately clean after each crime scene, and he hopes the same won't go for himself when he's brutally murdered in a parking lot. The whole garage is full, from family vans to pretentious convertibles, but not a single driver is coming out to claim his vehicle and drive home. Stiles doesn't know if it's a good thing that he won't be witnessing Peter tear apart the neck of a random stranger because they were in the wrong place in the wrong time or if it's seriously unfortunate luck on his end that there's nobody out here to beg for help to.

"And you're a Mac guy. Does that go for all werewolves or is that just a personal preference?" Stiles asks dryly while he stares at the computer. It's a stupid question, a filler that keeps his mouth moving and his hands from shaking, and Peter seems to get that because he doesn't even attempt to respond.

"Turn it on. Get connected."

"You know, you're really killing the whole werewolf mystique thing here," Stiles says. Peter's standing right next to him, still eerily calm, so of course that's when everything goes to hell. "Look, you still need Scott's username and password and I'm sorry, but I don't know them."

"You know both of them," Peter says without a beat.

"No, I don't," Stiles' mouth says without permission. His gut instinct is so disgustingly loyal that it keeps accidentally forgetting that the majority of the time he's talking to supernatural lie detectors, except this time it's a werewolf much more inclined to rip out his throat than Scott is or even Derek, and that's saying something considering that Derek pushes him against hard surfaces nearly every time they see each other.

"Even if I couldn't hear your heartbeat, I would still be able to tell that you're lying," Stiles feels a pit of consternation drop in his stomach, but once again, his lies barrel on. _Just believe in the lie, Stiles_, he tells himself, memory flitting back to when he was a child sitting at the breakfast table with his dad, mouth full of cereal while his dad told him how polygraphs work and how Stiles could beat them. _Believe in what you're saying._ Stiles believes harder than he wants to believe in unicorns that he has no idea what Scott's password is. He could've changed it, he could've added lots of numbers to it, he could've finally realized how ridiculous it was. God, he hopes Scott is at the hospital right now so he can keep an eye on Lydia's situation while Stiles lies his ass off for him.

"I swear to God—"

It does it. He knows his heartbeat is going too fast, so hard he can feel it press into his ribs like a rabid drumbeat, and that he's not in the state of mind to lie properly like when he stares right into Finstock's eyes and tell him that yes, he wrote the essay, he just left it in his printer. Peter's hand fastens over his neck and slams into the car with a superhuman strength that makes Stiles feel like his jaw is broken as he gasps against the slick trunk of the car, silver and cool under his face. Peter's thumb rubs over his earlobe, just a soft, teasing touch that makes Stiles wonder if his claws are out right now.

"I can be very persuasive Stiles," Peter says airily into the other direction. It's so casual and nonchalantly threatening Stiles gets legitimately petrified, more so than if it was roared into his ear. Peter leans closer and his warm breath prickles over the back of Stiles' neck while he struggles against the car. Peter's grip, effortless on his neck, doesn't let up. "Don't make me persuade you."

"What are you gonna do when you find him?" Stiles mutters onto the car, the metallic taste of paint and dirt hitting his tongue, and he knows that by this point even if Peter reassured him that he wasn't going to lay a finger on Scott—or anybody else for that matter—Stiles wouldn't have it in him to believe him. As hard as it is to imagine that the human man looming over him is the same creature with a hairy snout and fangs who prowls around on all fours and whose growls rumble through the ground like earthquakes, he doesn't want it proven in front of him. He knows what Peter's capable of. The evidence pictures from his father's desk flit through his mind again. Lots of blood.

"I'm not doing anything people don't deserve," Peter says, and he sounds a little frustrated now, like Stiles shouldn't be struggling so much with the concept. Stiles knows his story—broken and burnt and nothing but a shell of a man without a home or a family or a life, and yes, it's terrible, but so are the murders. He squirms against the car and Peter's thumb brushes over his ear again. "Now, let's try this again. Do you know Scott's username and password?"

"If I did, I wouldn't tell you," Stiles spits out, and there goes his stupid trustworthiness again, getting him into trouble. Scott's never been that great of a friend. He gets protective of his snacks and uses Stiles as a complaint center and even made out with Lydia during lacrosse practice, and here Stiles is sticking his neck out so far for him he's about to fall into a pit of thorns. Thorns, in this case, being Peter's sharpened claws. Stiles isn't a werewolf who can heal after each agonizing punch or kick, but here he is, risking his own life for his best friend.

Peter sighs, shifting behind him. His legs brush the back of Stiles' thighs as he moves, and he sounds so theatrically and genuinely disappointed in Stiles that he knows what's coming is going to be a punishment. He squirms against the car again, wishing that there was something he could do that would inflict more than just temporary harm on the freaking Alpha werewolf holding him captive.

"That's a shame," Peter says, tapping his thumb against the sensitive spot under Stiles' ear. He's barely whispering, a spine-chilling murmur into the echoes of the garage. "I was hoping we could do this pleasantly, Stiles."

"Did you think I would just give up my best friend?" Stiles demands against the car. It's starting to be uncomfortable alongside the dull throb where his cheek smacked into the car, and he wriggles against the trunk to try to readjust, but Peter's grip is like a robot's, strong and unmoving on his neck.

"Hmm," Peter says softly, "Admirable. Stupid, but admirable," he pauses, his free hand finding the small of Stiles' back where he fists a handful of Stiles' shirt before smoothing it out again. His touch is almost fatherly, a paternally soothing caress of the hands, but it does nothing to ease Stiles' pulse, beating loudly against the hood of the car. "Maybe you _want_ to be persuaded."

_No, no, not really_, Stiles thinks fervently, and struggles harder against the car. Peter doesn't seem even slightly unnerved by Stiles' discomfort, but rather enticed by his futile attempts to wriggle away from the pain. Stiles wonders if he can smell the fear off of him and if it's nothing but a heady, dizzying scent to him. He tries to calm down to little result.

Stiles waits for the claws in his neck or the scratches down his back or even for his body to be hurled down the parking lot, but it never comes. The hand on the small of his back starts wandering instead, gently upwards, hitching up the fabric of Stiles' shirt to reveal a sliver of pale skin on his back. Peter hums, a soft _mmm_ like he's examining a small piece of art up for critique, and then two fingers splay out over Stiles' skin, right where his hipbone curves into his backside and dips into the waistband of his boxers. Stiles swallows the gasp that's threatening to tumble from his mouth when Peter's fingertips and blunt fingernails run over his lower back and turn into Bad Touch territory.

"What—what are you doing?" Stiles demands. He's still waiting for the pain, the punch to the gut or the unexpected kick to the shin. He thinks his brain is blocking out the idea of other options.

"Persuading you," Peter murmurs, and Stiles can feel his breath on his neck, abruptly aware of how close he is. His chest is suddenly blanketing Stiles' backside, a warm, nearly electrifying contact of Peter's soft shirt catching the wrinkles of Stiles'. His chin settles into Stiles shoulder blade, and he's just barely grazing his teeth over the nape of his neck and letting his nose drag along where his hair gets bristly when he stands upright and circles his hand around Stiles' hips.

He knows what's coming then, not a bite or a scratch or any other type of painful agony, but rather something that feels _good_. Something that's going to make Stiles vulnerable and sobbing and begging onto the trunk of this shiny car, a humiliation far worse than any kind of stuck-in-a-locker pranks he could've been subjected to in freshmen gym class because he's never been touched like this before. Stiles goes rigid when the hand on his neck gently drags elongated claws through his hair and down his scalp and around to his collarbone, a silent warning for Stiles' body to heed for him to give up on fighting back now for everybody's sake, and his body listens even if his mind is screaming. A hand, a frustratingly warm and broad hand slides up the front of his shirt and delicately traces the skin of his stomach that isn't pressed onto the car, and Stiles wishes it would be icy if only to reflect his opinion of Peter. The guy's a murderer, a label Stiles grew up to mean psychotic and heartless and completely devoid of any rational emotion, and the Alpha fulfilled that definition when he nothing but a faceless animal hunting him and Scott, but Peter, with his hand's ministrations and his warm breath on his neck, is completely demolishing that definition because here he is, slowly feeling his heartbeat rise above a healthy rate because Peter's hands are tracing the waistband line of his boxers.

"Your heart is beating like crazy," Peter murmurs, and he sounds amused and maybe even a little entranced with how Stiles' body is reacting to him. His hand lays flat on Stiles' stomach, which instinctively ripples under the warm touch. "Am I making you nervous, Stiles?"

Stiles bites on his own tongue to keep from spitting out something that's going to end up in his throat being split open right here on this expensive, shiny paintjob. Peter's breath, warm and even, goes from his neck to his ear. A set of teeth settle over his earlobe, none of them fangs but all of them threatening nonetheless. His body is going at two hundred miles an hour right now, from his brain to his blood to his intuition, the last one practically shrieking at him to move away from Peter's hands. His body betrays his better judgment and stays still and unbending.

"You're awfully rigid, too," Peter comments, running his clawed hand down Stiles' clothed back as if feeling the tightly coiled stiffness of his spine. "Let's fix that."

It happens all too fast; suddenly Peter's hand is groping Stiles through his pants, a firm and demanding touch that takes all of Stiles' brain cells as its prisoners. It's so incredibly humiliating, because here he is, manhandled over a car by a monster and he's getting hard under his hand, his teenage hormones offering him the ultimate betrayal. Peter's hand, rough on where he's palming Stiles' dick through his clothes, traces a seam on his pants that lines up with Stiles' awakening cock. His eyes water and he squeezes them shut to keep out the signs of his vulnerability, determined not to share that he's responding to any of this, whether it be badly or not. He bites his lip hard enough to break the skin when Peter squeezes him through his pants to hold back a whimper.

"Stop that," Peter growls promptly, his voice a dangerous warning that Stiles doesn't want to submit to but still feels himself shudder at. "Stop restraining yourself. Let me _hear_ you."

Stiles says nothing, eyes tightly shut as if to block out the reality around him, determined not to obey, and Peter stops playing around. If he was ginger before, any remaining shreds of tenderness melt away to give way for rougher touches, and he gives Stiles no warnings before he unzips Stiles' pants and slips his hand into his boxers to grab his half-hard dick in his hands. Stiles submits despite himself and whimpers at the touch, warm and pleasing and so much more invigorating than the familiar touches of his own hand jerking himself off. He tries to pretend it isn't Peter, anybody but the town's crazy sociopath, but Peter doesn't let him forget his identity for a moment when he lets loose a low chuckle of satisfaction at Stiles' noise.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Peter says, forefinger brushing over the slit of Stiles' dick, and Stiles involuntarily jerks into it when suddenly, Peter's grip on his cock lessens into a loose hold, nothing but a few brushes of the hand. It's maddening, completely infuriating, and the worst part is that Stiles' dick grows harder and practically demands a firmer touch. He whines desperately into the car, wishing his cock was flaccid and his body was unresponsive to Peter's touches, but it's a losing battle. He digs his teeth into the soft flesh of his lip in frustration when Peter fails to properly grab his length.

"Fuck," Stiles murmurs into the abused skin of his lip, and of course Peter hears it, smug as ever. Stiles can imagine his face, haughty and smug as he watches Stiles struggle with his own moral compass over the demands of his hormones, and tries to buck desperately into his hand. Peter tsks and all but slams Stiles' head into the car again.

"It seems as if you want something," Peter mumbles, and he sounds so collected Stiles wants nothing more than to see their positions reversed while Peter begs for mercy from Stiles' ministrations. It's a twisted thought, one of the dirtiest things he's ever imagined, but Stiles knows that he can't account for his thoughts when they're overwhelmed by lust and arousal. "But surely you were taught that the right thing to do is to ask nicely," Stiles snarls onto the car and bucks his hips again. Peter's hold on his skull tightens. "_Ask nicely_."

"No," Stiles grits out, and Peter's hand vanishes from his cock. He can't hold back his instantaneous whimper of need when the warmth slips out of his pants.

"I'm giving you one more chance, Stiles," Peter growls, "I already know you want it. I can smell it on you."

Fuck, Stiles keeps forgetting about that. Stupid werewolves and their heightened senses, and here's Stiles, the only thing intensified for him being his hormones. He's just an average teenage boy wrapped up in something he isn't equipped to handle, from Alpha werewolves to keeping himself alive to not coming in his pants when Peter Hale is mouthing at the back of his neck with a hot tongue. Even if he does get out alive tonight, he's almost positive the shame will put him in an early grave. A blush creeps up his cheeks, hot and tingling, but he can't resist any longer when his cock throbs in his boxers.

"Fine," he spits, "Touch me."

"Good boy," Peter says into his ear, and it earns him both a knot of shame in his stomach and a shot of pleasure when Peter wraps his hand around his erection and strokes him so roughly it's nearly savage. Stiles clings onto the car, desperately trying to find purchase for his fingers, nearly weeping when Peter works him in his hand and digs his fingernail into the slit and uses tricks on him Stiles didn't even know of. The humiliation is gone, replaced with a primal want to come, and that's when Peter removes his hand and yanks Stiles' head up by the hair, sticking the same fingers roughly into his mouth without asking. Stiles nearly gags on them when they slide onto his tongue, sticky with his own precome, but he knows to bite them is to seal his own bloody fate. He lets Peter work two fingers over his tongue, listening to the man's ragged breath at the sensations behind him as he does so, and only when he's satisfied does he pull them out and press Stiles back into the car, less aggressively than before.

His cock is throbbing again with the ache of being touched, something that Stiles knows is going to become an addiction now that he knows what it feels like to have somebody other than himself touch him, but somehow he knows the last thing Peter wants is to let go of his upper hand too early by letting Stiles come already. He nearly weeps at the thought of being teased and tortured even longer but holds back, still determined not to let Peter prey on his weakness when he's already pushed into a freakishly vulnerable position.

He nearly yelps out loud when Peter's fingers, slick with his own saliva, press against his puckered entrance. He's never fingered himself before, only brushed over the area in passing, because despite his own insatiable curiosity there's still some lines he's scared to cross when he's in the shower jerking himself off to the steady sound of the water streaming from the shower head, and here's Peter breaching that line without permission. Part of Stiles wants to rear back and twist away and another part eggs him on and tells him to push into it, let the curiosity overtake his fear of the bloodthirsty killer and let his talented hands do what they want when they've already proven themselves to be skilled in providing pleasure entirely opposite from the blood they've brutally drawn. It's not his decision in the end anyway, because Peter barrels on forward without a second to consider that he's pushing a virgin to his limits, slick fingers probing and rubbing into his entrance and relaxing its taut muscles into submission. Stiles thinks about easing free one arm and pumping himself if he didn't already know that he'd be slapped away almost instantaneously, nearly sobbing in unadulterated desire. Peter snickers quietly at the sight Stiles makes, a writhing mess of a boy who was embarrassingly put together a mere three hours ago.

He pushes in two fingers at the same time when he finally breaches the ring of muscle of Stiles' hole, still coated with a heavy layer of spit but still not as smooth as Stiles would have desired, and Stiles cries out right away. His fingers press in jerkily and waste no time crooking into his walls, completely oblivious to the way Stiles' ass is practically clenching in protest in the little time it has to adjust to the intrusion.

"_Relax_," Peter demands, thumb rubbing circles around where his fingers are pushed into Stiles' entrance and mouth open on Stiles' upper back. He's mouthing through the fabric, damp with sweat, and scraping teeth that Stiles can't even tell if they're fangs or not against the muscles of his back like he's breathing in his scent. It's ridiculously hot, filthier than Stiles ever imagined his first fumbling sexual encounter would be, and Stiles is busy both succumbing to the pleasure and mentally punishing himself for doing so. He always thought it'd be Lydia, a silly youthful wish that he'd be kissing softly glossed lips and sliding his hands over a soft, petite stomach, but instead he's rutting against a car with Peter Hale's fingers pressed into his ass. The worst part is probably that it _feels so good_, a blend of pain and pleasure that makes Stiles see double, the kind of good that means he's going to replay it for months in the shower.

"Trying," Stiles grits out, and if he's going to admit that he's enjoying this he's still not going to take Peter's easier-said-than-done demands in silence. He takes a breath, relaxes, and unclenches. Peter's fingers slip in further, nudging his prostate. Stiles nearly sobs, hips jerking. "T-touch me."

Peter doesn't deny him, his power game dwindling to his own arousal as he leans forward and Stiles feels Peter's erection bump into his thigh as he reaches around to take Stiles' dick in his hand once more. Nothing about his grip is soft, fingers aggressive and unyielding. The pain and pleasure and the rough slide of his fingers in his ass as Peter pulls them out, teases his hole and pushes back in mingle into a heady mixture that leaves Stiles dazed and broken and limbless against the car. He tries not to think too hard about the fact that there's a dead body in this trunk underneath him, and God knows what Derek did to her, and how all he wants is to get away alive with a few remains of his dignity. He's pretty sure that every moan that spills from his mouth and every rut of his hips takes another chunk away.

"Stiles," Peter rumbles, and his voice sounds hoarse like the very sight of Stiles is pulling him apart, and Stiles takes quite a bit of sick pride from the fact that he can bring this guy so close to the brink that he makes a note to remember later when he isn't so focused on the slide of Peter's fingers stretching him open. A stab of fear goes through his chest at the thought of Peter stretching him open to fuck him, Peter completely losing control while he's fucking Stiles without abandon, and there's probably no condom and no lube and nothing to ease the blow, but Peter has other plans. He drags his teeth down Stiles' neck again and sucks purpling marks into the crook of his shoulder, stinging hickeys that Stiles is going to be hiding for weeks, all the while increasing the tempo of his fingers fucking into Stiles' swollen hole.

Peter's cock, as hard as Stiles' but still trapped in the prison of his pants, bumps into his thigh again, a hot line pressing into his leg that has Stiles biting back a moan at the thought of Peter being as equally turned on as Stiles is. Suddenly the pants aren't in the way anymore and Peter's bare length grinds up against Stiles' thigh, establishing a frantic rhythm that vaguely matches the pace of his hands on Stiles but lacks the steadiness. His precome is smearing onto Stiles' thigh and he knows that this is the sort of thing that Scott or Derek would be able to smell on him, the dabs of come sliding down his leg before Peter growls and repositions himself for more friction. His cock moves from Stiles' thigh to the crack of his ass, riding between his cheeks but never pushing in where his fingers are still keeping up a relentless rhythm. He knows this is going to hurt later, an ache that'll sit in his ass and burden his mind for a while, but Stiles doesn't even want to stop anymore, letting himself surrender entirely to the sensations of Peter's length sliding against his ass and his hand wrapped around his erection.

"Are you going to come for me, Stiles?" Peter practically purrs, sounding delightfully breathless and simultaneously smug. Stiles whimpers at the thought of finally finding his release from the overload of pleasure that's attacking at him from all sides, Peter's mouth going back to nibbling at his earlobe as if to urge on his answer.

"Jesus, yeah," Stiles finally manages to get out, and he feels Peter smile against his ear. And God, this is so wrong, _so_, so wrong on so many levels, but it only takes a few more brutal pushes of Peter's fingers into his hole before he's coming, crying out and biting his lip bloody to keep the noise from echoing through the garage. The pleasure sweeps him like a tidal wave or a cargo train smacking directly into his ribcage, a heavy weight that courses through every limb and leaves no appendage unaffected, and the way his body writhes against the car and the desperate tears of his release squeeze from his eyes is enough to motivate Peter as well, who growls primordially next to his ear much more like an Alpha than a human before he's coming as well, come splattering over Stiles' thigh in a way that'll be gross in under a minute but that only makes Stiles' eyes flutter closed in silent contentment at the time.

It takes only four seconds for the touches to vanish. The fingers slip from his ass and Peter's other hand leaves Stiles' sensitive cock alone, his hands leaving warm patches of guilt in their wake. Stiles swallows against the car, sticky and sweaty and unbelievably sated, and Peter's hand finds the nape of his neck again, squeezing like a warning.

_The computer_, Stiles remembers, but it's a foggy thought that's slowly coming back into clarity. Reality crashes down when he realizes that he's not being held down anymore, slumped against the trunk of the car because of how incredibly spent he is, and he straightens up faster than he can get the oxygen back into his lungs. Peter looms behind him, still not willing to risk Stiles escaping, except now he's loose-limbed and satisfied and shamed all at once and in no position to make a run for it no matter how badly he doesn't want to look Peter in the face right now.

"Now," Peter says, and he already sounds composed. There's come starting to dry on Stiles' thigh and Peter's breath is warm on his neck when he leans in. "Let's try that again."

He curls a hand around Stiles' shoulder. His claws, the same ones raking up and down his back and through his hair, are gone now, replaced with blunt fingernails. He's wearing a very distinct aftershave, a minty scent that's hanging in the air, and Stiles knows he'll never be able to smell anything like it again.

"Allison," Stiles says raggedly, and he practically feels himself deflating. "That's his username and password."


End file.
